Page 201 of His Reckoning

It’s constant and unrelenting. Yet somehow, it still feels quieter than the apartment did when I left it.

I pull my jacket tighter around myself as I move with the crowd, letting it carry me forward without really thinking about where I’m going because I don’t have a destination.

Not tonight. Not anymore.

A week ago, I would’ve been heading back to Sawyer’s place, to the quiet hum of his apartment, where everything somehow felt reliable.

Now I just … walk.

My shoes hit the pavement in a steady rhythm as I weave through people who all seem to know exactly where they’re going.

Someone brushes my shoulder as they pass, but I barely register it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I don’t check it. I already know it’s not him.

That thought settles heavier than anything else.

Because a small, stubborn part of me—the part I can’t quite shut off—expected something.

A text, a call … anything. Even after the way things ended.

I swallow hard and turn down another street, the noise shifting as I move deeper into the city.

The sky is fading now, the last bit of daylight slipping behind the buildings as the streetlights flicker on one by one.

Everything glows around me, soft and warm, but I’m completely disconnected from how I feel.

I slow as I pass a storefront window, my reflection catching in the glass.

For a second, I don’t recognize myself. There’s a weight there that wasn’t there before.

A heaviness in my shoulders and in my eyes, like something important got knocked out of place and hasn’t settled yet.

I stare at my reflection a second too long before forcing myself to look away.

The crosswalk light changes. People move, so I move with them because stopping feels worse. Standing still means thinking, and thinking means replaying everything.

The book, the argument, and Sawyer’s voice.

“And you turned it into material.”

My chest tightens as the memory hits again. Because no matter how many times I go over it … no matter how many ways I try to explain it in my head … I can’t change the one thing that matters.

I hurt him.

I turn onto another block, the smell of food drifting out from a restaurant nearby. Something warm and familiar. For a second, it makes my stomach twist because I can picture it too clearly.

Sawyer leaning against the counter.

Watching me while I “evaluated” the refrigerator. The way he’d roll his eyes but still make me something anyway.

The memory hits harder than I expected.

I stop walking, just for a second, because that’s the part I didn’t prepare for. The way everything still feels like him, even when he’s not here.

I exhale slowly and force myself forward again. Standing here won’t change anything. Nothing will.